Under Umbrellas
by torriebug
Summary: Greg Lestrade doesn't usually walk away from crime scenes smiling, but this time he does.


_pairing: minor mystrade_  
><em>hope you enjoy :)<em>

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><p>Gregory Lestrade had been on the police force for ten years, slowly working his way up to the title of Detective Inspector, and in none of those ten years did he ever have a problem with the public. The yellow tape usually took care of them. But one month ago, when working on a crime scene in the very heart of London, that all changed. A curly-haired young man, maybe ten years Greg's junior, had shown up like he belonged there. He was wearing a coat that seemed a size too big and a navy blue scarf. His eyes were bright and excited. "It was his brother," he'd stated authoritatively about the man lying dead, and then looked positively bewildered when escorted from the premises. Greg didn't realize until the dead man's brother was in custody that the mysterious youth had been right.<p>

This happened several times until Greg began keeping a look-out for him. "Anderson, make sure the kid doesn't get past that yellow line, or it's on your head," Greg called, stalking towards the body. He was there for all of three minutes when someone crouched down on the cadaver's other side.

"Asphyxiation," the younger man from before had said absently, voice low and serious. "Sherlock Holmes, by the way. Since you didn't ask."

"I don't care what your bloody name is, how did you-"

"He was poisoned," Sherlock said confidently, pointing. "Look here. There is lipstick on his collar, but it had been scrubbed away. Guilt. Means he was cheating on someone- a wife, a lover, someone. Probably a wife, seeing how he's got a tan line from where he removed his ring. He's got ketchup stains on his shirt, here, next to the pocket. He was eating something, so he and the missus were on a date." Sherlock reached forward, plucking a phone from the man's pocket and scrolled through it. Greg was relieved to see the powder blue of medical gloves on his fingers.

"Aha. Text from 'Rose'—oh, that's quite lewd," Sherlock said in amusement, chuckling.

"Look, you, whoever you are. This is my crime scene. I don't know how you keep finding out about them so quickly but you need to-"

"What?" Sherlock stared at him. "I need to leave so you and your pathetic team can take weeks to find out what I can tell you in seconds? It was the wife, Lestrade, who slipped arsenic into his wine, out of jealousy. Diluted, so it would take a while for the full affect. He stumbled home from the restaurant but was disoriented. Fell and choked on his own vomit."

Lestrade stood, quacking with rage and indignation. "Get off my crime scene before I take you in, Mr. Holmes."

"Fine." Sherlock snapped off his gloves, tossing them down. He threw Lestrade a petulant scowl like a child denied their favorite candy. "Fine, have it your way. But you'll be begging me to come back."

And he left. Greg stared after him and, with a shake of his head, beckoned the coroner over.

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><p>"Sherlock, get in the car!" DI Lestrade called in frustration, "You're not allowed to be out there!"<p>

He and the Scotland Yard crew had been surveying a murder scene when it had started pouring down rain. Most of the crew were taking shelter in the police cruisers, others in the back of the ambulance. They couldn't do much when they could barely see. After fifteen minutes of straight rain – lo and behold – Sherlock had been a dramatic appearance. All swishing coat and bright eyes, the man had taken no heed of the pounding rain and was crouched by their latest body, studying it intently. Most of Scotland Yard watched from their cars, torn between amused and annoyed. Lestrade made an angered noise, throwing open his cruiser's door. "Bloody hell," he growled, shielding his head with his arms and walking over to the mad genius.

"Sherlock, you can't be here," he said loudly. He could feel the dozens of eyes on his back and lowered his voice, crouching down. "What have you got?"

Sherlock flashed him an agitated look. "The rain is making this difficult," he said reluctantly, "but if we wait there will be no more evidence to speak of. Purely coincidence— the killer wasn't that smart as to time the murder."

"How do you figure?"

"If he were smart he wouldn't have dumped the body in a frequently passed alleyway." Sherlock turned his gaze back to the body, humming under his breath. His hair was plastered to his skull but he didn't seem to notice, and Lestrade stood with a sigh. He let his arms down and looked around, noticing a shining black car pull up.

"Now who is this?" he muttered, watching a tall figure emerge from the vehicle, black umbrella shielding him. The man took only a second the appear at Lestrade's side, done up in a numerous-piece suit and a stern expression. He looked familiar in a way Greg couldn't place.

"Sherlock Holmes, get in the car," the man snapped, glaring over Lestrade's shoulder and ignoring the stunned DI completely.

"Excuse me, but who the hell are you?" Greg asked.

"Mycroft Holmes," the man said, his tone immediately colored with politeness. He flashed Greg a small grimace that he believed was supposed to be a smile. "I apologize for my brother's behavior. I assure you, it will be handled."

"I'm solving a murder, Mycroft," Sherlock drawled from over the rain. He barely tossed the older man a glance. "Go away, you're being boring."

Mycroft shot Sherlock an annoyed frown, then looked back at Lestrade as if seeing him for the first time, standing in the rain and soaked to the bone. "Oh," he said, bewildered, "here. You may share my umbrella—he's going to be a few moments and you might as well be….well, more comfortable than you are. I rather doubt standing under some shade with dry you, but it will stop you from getting any wetter."

Greg nodded gruffly and joined Mycroft under the shade of the umbrella. What seemed at first to be a rather large stretch of fabric seemed to shrink right over their heads. When Greg shifted, his arm brushed Mycroft's just enough for him to notice. The other man barely had to turn his head in this proximity to look at him. "Hope you're comfortable," he said cheerfully.

Greg could have sworn he heard Sherlock cough.

"Fine, thanks," Greg said dryly, giving the genius's back a resigned look. "I'll take what ever you've got, Sherlock."

"Two more minutes!"

Silence reigned for a few awkward seconds before Greg felt Mycroft move beside him. A hand brushed the DI's thigh so lightly that goosebumps broke out over his cold skin. He looked over at the older man sharply. "He's a wonder, isn't he?" Mycroft hummed under his breath. "If only he would listen to me more. I tried a nanny but that never seems to work."

Suddenly, Sherlock stood and came over to them looking quite pleased. "Quite the challenge, but I've figured it out. I'll send you the details later, Lestrade."

"But I don't have your-"

"Check your pocket," Sherlock sighed. It was a telling sigh, one that said _now really, what would you tiny little humans with your tiny little human brains do without me and my genius_. Said genius straightened his soaked collar, heading toward Mycroft's car without a backwards glance.

Greg blinked, reaching into his pocket.

"The other one," Mycroft hummed pleasantly, gesturing to the side closest to him. Greg pulled out the slip of paper he found there with a wary frown. _Mycroft Holmes_ it read in dark ink, followed by a phone number. When Greg flipped it over, he found Sherlock's name and number in a neat script. "Listen, this is completely-"

"Just keep an eye on him, Greg," Mycroft interrupted, turning. "He needs a friend."

Greg stood in the rain several moments after they'd left and looked cluelessly from the card in his hand to the body at his feet. He heard a car door slam. "You okay, boss?" someone called, jogging over.

"I-…yeah, I'm fine."

"What do you think killed him? Poor sod," the man said pityingly, looking down at the body. A ding alerted Lestrade of a new text and he pulled out his phone, reading the message. A surprised laugh escaped him.

"Oh, I think I have an idea," he said in response. He pressed several buttons, saving the number as_Sherlock Holmes_. "Now get him to the morgue. I've got a few texts to send."

He glanced at the card in his hand and began entering the typed name, walking towards his car. He had a very strong feeling that both of the Holmes brothers would be making frequent appearances in his life from now on.

The thought was oddly warming.


End file.
